


And No Further

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon is a little anal, Gen, Stylistically Weird, Thangorodrimfic, impressionistic, journeys of self discovery, should be a thing, totally cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks north.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And No Further

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird one. Still not sure what is going on with my writing in general and particularly for this fandom. But I <3 Fingon a lot, and I wanted to write something about this journey, and I think the tone might kind of fit the subject. Huh. Title, for the interested, from Job 38:11.

He went on foot because a horse would have been too noticeable. He needed to be stealthy, for this. He went alone because no one else would go. _I will never,_ he had snarled into his own brother’s face, _believe that he is dead._

_Eru, come back safely,_ Aredhel had said, and didn’t let him see her tears.

He was walking through tall grass that swished quietly against his legs. His braid thumped against his back and there was hardly the sound of birds or insects in the midafternoon sun. Even this close, even with the encampments and the sea just a day or so behind him, already it was like he was the only living being in the world. Perhaps, here, he was. The Enemy’s reach was long.

Somewhere north of him, in that place that was still just a smudge on the horizon, he would find Maedhros, and bring him home. He couldn’t do anything else.

_He would have come for me,_ Fingon said, fiercely, and Turgon’s lips had pressed together like he wanted to argue but didn’t know how. Turgon, still grieving for his wife. _No one will ever be able to say of me that I don’t remember my friendships._

Not like Maedhros’ brothers, leaving him to die. Giving him up. No.

_I will never believe that he is dead._

He walked on.

* * *

Fingon slept on his back in the grass, lightly. He dreamed of smoke and flame, of the Two Trees burning. He dreamed of his father’s face, tearstained and grim, saying, “We go to war.” Of Maedhros and his brothers standing tall together and swearing on their swords. Memories.

He dreamed of Feanor as he must have looked with his sword to Fingon’s father’s throat. Dreamed of how he must have died. Dreamed of Maedhros forced to his knees before a dark throne with his teeth grinding together so he didn’t scream.

Fingon sat bolt upright out of that one, staring into the dark. The moon hung bright and half full in the sky above him, still unfamiliar. _The Valar are cruel,_ he remembered Turgon saying, on the ice, eyes wild and breaking his silence at last after Elenwe had fallen. _We were all deceived, Kano,_ and even knowing that they were exiled, that the Valar turned a deaf ear to all their words, Fingon wanted to wince.

_Give me a chance,_ Fingon thought. _Let me save him. It’s not over yet._ Varda’s stars winked at him.

He rose quietly from the grass, shaking the dew from his hair, and shouldering his pack resumed his course. There was still a long way to go.

Fingon took deep, slow breaths and pretended at calm. Opened his stride. Kept his eyes on the stars, and the moon, and not on the shadow on the horizon.

_The Valar are cruel._

* * *

He met his first patrol on the seventh night out. _So close,_ he thought, jerking his arrows roughly from the bodies and cleaning them on the rough clothing. _Too close._ The Enemy’s territory was still nothing more than a smudge, a hint at darkness, but these twisted creatures wandered far.

Deliberately, Fingon did not look too closely at their features. Did not think of how they might have been fine once. Did not notice their slightly pointed ears. Did not.

He lurched a few steps away and heaved. He could feel himself shaking, a little, and forced himself to take deep breaths.

_It hasn’t been long enough,_ he thought, and did not let himself think further than that. Turned forcefully away and left the bodies behind, lying in this endless grassland. _I will never…_

Something smelled foul in the air. Not like rotting meat, but something darker, more sour. The skin on the back of his neck was starting to burn from the sun. His braid felt heavy, like it was dragging him down.

Fingon came across a stream and ducked down to drink from it, and spat it out just as quickly. It tasted like death. He could begin to make out mountains among that dark haze. Somewhere, there, Maedhros was waiting for him.

_Wait for me a little longer,_ cousin, Fingon thought fiercely. It was deathly quiet.

So he sang. Kept his bow strung during the night and sang during the day, even as the days grew shorter and shorter, the dark closing in.

* * *

 _Please,_ Maedhros said in his dreams one night. _Please, just kill me,_ and tilted his head back. He was as beautiful as Fingon remembered.

_No,_ Fingon said, _no, I won’t,_ and Maedhros cursed him, tears rolling down his face.

Fingon woke with an ache in his chest. A deep down ache that didn’t ease. _I won’t be too late,_ he told himself. He looked up at the sky, seeking the stars, and found only clouds. There was no light here, only eternal twilight, half-light, dead-dusk-light. The ragged edges of the mountains behind which Morgoth hunkered blurred into the lighter grey of sky, but he could see them clearly now. Like teeth gnashing toward the sky.

He was tired. But there was no turning back. Only forward. And forward, and forward, and forward.

“I will never,” Fingon said aloud, and his words fell like stones into the heavy silence of this place. He would keep the faith. He would always keep the faith. Even if no one else. He would keep the faith.

Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he continued onward. Maedhros, in his head, murmured please.

No, said Fingon. No.

He pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. It was cold. It would only get colder.

* * *

The black rocks of the mountains bit into his hands as Fingon clawed his way upward. He paused to wrap his hands because he was beginning to slip in blood, and looked up at the sky, seeking the moon, the stars, anything to give him heart ( _oh Varda, I am weary_ ) and found only clouds, their underbellies dark with shadow.

Just for a moment, he closed his eyes and doubted.

Fingon forced his eyes back open and gritted his teeth. His hands stung. His body ached. His mind wanted nothing more than to rest. There would be time for that.

“If you’re dead,” he said to the air, “So help me I will walk to the Halls of Mandos and drag you back myself.”

No one answered, of course. Fingon shoved himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders back. He reached up and wrapped his throbbing hand against the next outcropping, braced himself. Thought of days in the sun. Of the smell of fresh grass. The taste of clean water. The brush of Maedhros’ shoulder against his.

He climbed.

* * *

 _Please,_ Maedhros said, hoarse and desperate, his eyes wide and dark and wild, hopeless. _Please, Kano. End this. Kill me._

For a moment, Fingon thought he would have. For a moment. Had his bow out and ready to string, because perhaps this was what it came to, after all. _The Valar are cruel. This is all I can give him._

An eagle saved them both.

Fingon was relieved, selfishly relieved, when Maedhros passed out with the knife grating against the bones of his wrist. He didn’t want to hear his friend, his strong, brave, friend, screaming like a broken thing. Didn’t want to believe…

“Hush,” Fingon said, easing him down onto Thorondor’s back (trying not to look at the ragged stump of his arm, bleeding). Maedhros stirred only slightly, with a soft keening noise. “Hush, Nelyo. I’m taking you home.”

Maedhros’ lips moved. _Please,_ he mouthed. His skin was hot and dry, the color of ash.

“I won’t let you die,” Fingon said, tangling his fingers in filthy red hair. “I will not let you die.”

_The Valar are cruel,_ Turgon said, his dead wife’s body frozen on the ice. For a moment, Fingon agreed with him.

But he wasn’t dead. Fingon could start with that. 


End file.
